The following morn, far from being invited to join military practice or meet Caratacus—something Morwyn had half expected as her right—one of the Elders from the previous night entrusted her with the care of half a dozen clearly peasant children who all looked younger than Gwyn.
Morwyn bit back her frustration, but only just. The Elder offered her a faint smile, as if she understood Morwyn’s sharp intake of breath for what it truly was.
“They need to be kept occupied while we arrange for the final exodus,” she said. “And while they are not of Druidic blood, they can all be taught of the Morrigan. You’re the ideal teacher, Morwyn. You are, indeed, the answer to our prayers.”
Morwyn inclined her head, but respect was the last emotion bubbling in her breast. The Morrigan had brought her here, in order to be a childminder? She was relegated to watching over the young, and not even noble young at that, while her contemporaries worked alongside the Briton king on his great mission?
Rigid with affront, she followed the Elder’s directions to a nearby stream, where she could supervise the children’s cleansing rituals. And there, instead of merely handing out her supplies, she sent them on search-and-find missions to discover the raw ingredients nearby. Secretly impressed by their willingness to learn, she taught them how to process their haul. Truly, it was remarkable how quick-witted they were, considering they possessed not a drop of noble blood.
As the sun climbed to its pinnacle, she considered her thought. In the past, she had only ever taught the children of other Druids or nobility. Peasant children didn’t have the luxury of obtaining an education. As soon as they were old enough they were set to work, helping their parents, and that was the way it had always been.
Was it the way it would always be?
So much had changed. Morwyn was still a noble but she had no home. She was still a Druid but her clan was fragmented. These children, Gwyn included, had been born into poverty. Did that mean they should be denied the means to improve their minds, to learn to the best of their ability?
A shiver trickled along her spine, and oddly she recalled Carys telling her, with defiance, how she taught Branwen the secret Druid ways. How Morwyn had been shocked at the blatant blasphemy.
And how now, looking at the eager little faces before her, she could suddenly understand why Carys, although only half-trained, had succumbed to the urge to pass on her knowledge.
It was what they did. Teach the younger generation. Without that, they were nothing. Their ways would die.
The Romans would win.
Her breath escaped in a shocked gasp and she pressed her hand against her breast. Children, whether they were of Druid or peasant blood, were the future. How could she, how could any of them, withhold their knowledge from any of their people who wished to learn?
Glancing around, to ensure they were alone, she smothered the ember of guilt and began to tell them of the Creation.
Not the diluted version that peasants had told among themselves for generations. But the full story. The sacred heritage of the Druids.
For a moment Trogus froze, bow raised, body taut, eyes frantically searching the section of forest where just a moment before Dunmacos had ridden.
Nothing. Heart jackknifing, he dug in his spurs and urged his horse forward, out from the concealment of trees.
Dunmacos didn’t leap from an overhead branch or barrel into Trogus’ side from a hidden trap. Trogus held his erratic breath, strained his ears, but could hear no distant snapping twigs of muffled progress. Could feel no vengeful eyes upon him. No gut-deep conviction of surveillance.
Cautiously he edged between two massive oaks, and vertigo slammed into him, almost unseating him, and he clutched the front of the saddle for balance, his weapon digging into his hands.
Gods, he was going to vomit. The trees spun, the earth undulated, and distant, disembodied voices swam in his mind.
“Caratacus has been expecting you, Bren.”
“I was unavoidably detained.”
Trogus grimaced and crouched over his saddle. He recognized that voice. It was Dunmacos.
Bren?
Caratacus had been expecting him?
Instinctively, Trogus hauled reins and retreated from the oak trees. Instantly his head cleared and stomach calmed. And his brain went into overload.
He’d discovered the hidden whereabouts of Caratacus. And Dunmacos—Bren?—had led him there.
Despite the danger that thudded all around, a disbelieving grin cracked his face. Dunmacos, favorite auxiliary of their praefectus, was nothing more than a fucking traitor. The one who had been selling secrets to the enemy. Putting his own countrymen’s lives at risk.
The grin faded. He could return to the garrison and share his information. The Commander would send the elite of his Legion to wipe out the rebels. Crucify Dunmacos.
Trogus would rather deal with Dunmacos himself. Then inform his superiors.
For several moments he remained mounted, scanning the area. There was something unnatural, something that made his flesh crawl about the trees that concealed Caratacus’ camp. Something that made him want to avert his eyes and turn away.
Then he focused on the gap between the two great oak trees. And the insidious feeling of repulsion faded.
Magic.
It could be nothing else. Somehow, Caratacus was using magic to conceal himself from his enemies.
Heart thudding, he urged his horse once more through the gap. Again the vertigo assailed him but he pushed on, gritting his teeth, and the sensation faded. He glanced around but the forest stretched in every direction, with nothing to indicate he was now within the perimeter of Caratacus’ camp.
He had traveled scarcely the length of a full-grown oak before two blue-daubed barbarians confronted him, primitive spears pointing at his heart.
Trogus raised his hands, dropping his arrow to the ground but leaving his bow across his saddle. “I come in peace.” His words appeared to have no visible effect. He took a deep breath. If he was wrong, he might take out one of them before dying. “At the request of my blood brother, Bren.”
The barbarians didn’t move a muscle, but neither did they launch their spears at him. His breathing grew a little easier. “I come to fight by Caratacus’ side against the Roman bastards.”
The barbarian on the left jerked his spear, a clear indication for Trogus to dismount. He did so, slinging his bow across his shoulder as he landed on the ground.
“You, follow me.” The barbarian turned to his compatriot. “I’ll send reinforcements back.”
The other one nodded, but didn’t look overly happy by the situation. Trogus smothered a sneer. They were woefully unprepared should an attack occur. Were the Romans in charge—or even the Gauls—this entrance would be crawling with guards. Not a mere two or three.
As soon as they were a safe distance from the entrance, Trogus dispatched the barbarian with insulting ease. And they called themselves warriors? How had such ill-prepared specimens managed to so rile the Legion?
He hauled the body into the undergrowth, gripped the reins of his horse, and went farther into Caratacus’ lair.
As the children used reeds to blow leaves at one another, Gwyn appeared more interested in watching Morwyn prepare darts with berry poison. It was hard to reconcile the child’s low birth with her aptitude to learn. She would make a more than satisfactory acolyte.
The ember of guilt didn’t ever stir. She’d take that as a sign the Morrigan didn’t disapprove. Yet in a small, rebellious section of her mind she wondered—wouldn’t she continue to teach Gwyn, whatever the opinion of her goddess?
An elderly peasant woman hobbled to the stream, to inform Morwyn the midday meal was ready. As they returned to the cromlech, Morwyn excused herself. She was in dire need to relieve herself.
She walked some distance from the cromlech and found a suitably concealed patch of earth behind some bushes. How odd that in such a short space of time she’d got used to the convenience of Roman latrines.
A jagged sigh escaped and no matter how she tried to skirt the thought, her Gaul intruded. Was he angry that she’d left him? Would he miss her at all? Or had she been so blinded by her own feelings that she’d imagined that tender look in his eyes?
Approaching footsteps and raised voices, taking no care for stealth, headed her way. Goddess, she hoped they didn’t intend to march right through her privacy. It was one thing to share such necessities of life with friends, but she didn’t relish being caught by strangers with her gown around her knees.
She hunched lower, willing them to hurry and pass so she could finish in peace. Now they were so close she could distinguish the words of their conversation.
“It’s no good shouting at me, Bren.” The man sounded exasperated, as if he had repeated that statement many times in the past. “We don’t have the resources to man the entrance the way you’d like. Four warriors is the maximum we can spare.”
“There were only three.” The voice vibrated with fury. Morwyn choked on a breath and leaned forward, squinting through her prickly green-leafed shield.
She was mistaken. She’d been thinking about her Gaul, and her depraved mind had allowed her to hear his voice in place of the stranger’s. Her Gaul couldn’t be here, in Caratacus’ enclave, because that would mean—
Chills streaked along her arms. Did it mean he had followed her? Had she led the enemy into the king’s camp?
From her vantage point she could see only their legs. Even their feet were invisible, concealed by the tangled undergrowth. Goddess, let her be mistaken. My Gaul can’t be here.